


i know that it's delicate (isn't it?)

by writtendlessly



Category: Sorted (Website) RPF
Genre: M/M, im not really sorry, no capitals poetic nonsense again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 22:20:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18303005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writtendlessly/pseuds/writtendlessly
Summary: It starts as a joke, as these things do, but even when Mike doesn't need the help anymore--James hovers.





	i know that it's delicate (isn't it?)

**Author's Note:**

> James always checks in with Mike in ultimate battle videos and it's cute as hell and it inspired me. See: [ this ](http://manzini.tumblr.com/post/183844414491/manzini-james-checking-up-on-mike-during-ultimate)

it starts out as just a joke. mike is whining at anyone who will listen about something going wrong, managing to spill something and burn his hand at the same time while he does it. ben frowns in disapproval—and concern, undoubtedly—but his dedication to being an impartial judge keeps him from helping. 

mike turns his attention to james and james isn’t sure if he’s pouting on purpose or subconsciously, but it draws him in nonetheless. he heads over to mike’s station and tuts patronizingly at his various pots and bowls. james knows the recipe, he wrote it himself, but he snatches up the paper anyway and starts reading it aloud, emphasizing every word that mike got wrong.

this doesn’t lessen mike’s whining—in fact, it probably increases it—but he manages to fix his mistakes and put out a decent dish in the end too. 

the next time, james starts reading out instructions before mike has even began and mike throws a pepper directly at his face. mike can’t stop giggling for the rest of the battle at how james looked when the pepper hit him right between the eyes. 

 

over time, it morphs into something a lot less antagonistic. james hovers around, reciting instructions not to annoy him but to remind him of something he forgot. mike plays it off as a laugh, as he does, calling him teacher, sensei, guardian angel. 

ben warns him about meddling but james never touches anything, just murmurs out of shot, keeping his voice low even though he’s not mic-ed. he lets ben talk when it’s time to judge, not wanting to reveal the surge of pride he felt when mike executed all his steps perfectly. 

 

eventually, mike doesn’t need the help anymore. he’s still a disaster in the kitchen—screaming into open pots and burning his fingers at least once a day—but he is much more confident, more certain in what he’s doing and how he’s explaining it to the camera. james isn’t needed, not really, but he gravitates towards mike’s side of the studio regardless. mike smiles up at him between steps, a secret smile that isn’t captured by the cameras focused on jamie and barry, and the way his face lights up reminds james of sun, of stars, of the way planets draw meteors in to either orbit or crash into them. 

 

 

 

at first, it’s an annoyance. mike gets it, he really does. he’s not as good as the others, not as reliable or clever. he has never had the attention span to pay attention to a recipe, especially not with how long and drawn out james makes them. what he _is_ good at, however, is playing his weaknesses like jokes to a camera. he whines, he pouts, puts on his best puppy dog eyes and is not surprised when ben is unfazed. 

james, however, lovely james, hasn’t had the years to grow tired of mike just yet, and he comes over at mike’s pleading. james gives as good as the rest of them, if somewhat hesitantly, and the way he reads out instructions is both condescending and completely unhelpful. mike pulls it together in the end, somehow, and this sets a precedent. for the next three battles james looms over his station and recites ingredients lists in a way that probably does more harm than good, with how it distracts mike. he doesn’t mind too much. 

 

later on, it becomes softer, words less sharp and more guiding, reminiscent of the way mike would talk to his students years ago. it makes him feel more competent, somehow dulls the buzzing and non-stop chatter in his brain and allows him to focus on what he needs to do. he normally doesn’t win, always the bridesmaid, but he glows with happiness when the others point out his even cuts, his crispy edges, his perfectly-cooked-all-the-way-through.

 

these days, it’s become such habit that mike can’t imagine how he did these without james’ presence always in his peripheral. it’s grounding, in a way that nothing has ever been for mike before. his hands still shake on the small, delicate things, his time gets away from him and he forgets entire ingredients. 

but mike chances a glance up and, every time, james is there with a small reassuring smile—or a cocky smirk or a disappointed frown or, mike’s favorite, the slightest hint of a pout—and mike can rein in whatever detritus is shooting out from him. it’s similar to the way mortar locks bricks together, the way a loose thread tightens the fabric when you pull it, the way stained glass windows hold in songs and prayers and pleas but somehow, still, let the light come through.


End file.
